


Digimon Drabbles 5-Humanized AU

by Octopus_the_Kraken



Series: Digimon Humanized AU Series [5]
Category: Digimon - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Art, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Cold Weather, Comic, Dark Past, Dogs, Dreams and Nightmares, Early Mornings, F/M, Gothic, Hatred, M/M, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, Multi, Old Writing, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Pedophilia, Phone Calls & Telephones, Relationship(s), Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Suggestive Themes, Symbolism, Victorian, Violence, Vomiting, character reveals, coffee and tea, dinner date, rotting food, self-destructive thoughts, shit gets real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octopus_the_Kraken/pseuds/Octopus_the_Kraken
Summary: Requests; SkyressTheWind.A set of humanized digimon drabbles with more characters, pairings, and requests from people like you!Have we gone dark enough in this series? Nope. We're going darker! And guess what? We're only getting worse from here!! Get ready for; a new requested pairing, cute past relationships, the super sweet middle-aged love-story of momma Sayuri and papa Imperial, one realistic nightmare comic, some sad and dark thoughts of a hopeless romantic emo boy, and the story where life just really takes a downhill spiral! And some more art for you lovely people!Still BL/Yaoi, fluff, and cuteness! Now with depression, hate and other subjects listed in the tags!





	1. Table of Contents

**Digimon Drabbles 5- Humanized AU**

**Requests from; SkyressTheWind** **.**

Pied x Myotis

Duke x Beelz

Sayuri x Imperial

Grani x Behemoth

**Human/Character names:**

Beelz "Bells" Ōkui _[Beelzemon (Tamer ver.)]_

Duke "Gail" Matsuki _[Gallantmon/Dukemon]_

Sayuri Ōkui  _[Mother (Tamer Ver.)]_

Imperial Motomiya _ _[Imperialdramon]__

Pied Sigma _[Piedmon]_

Mylo Crimson _[Myotismon]_

Beelzebub "BB" Ōkui _[Beelzebumon (Xros Wars ver.)]_

Behemoth _[Tamers ver.]_

Grani _[Tamers ver.]_

Baälze Meephos _[??]_

Haya Adephagia _[??]_

\----

**Quick thing I want to say; I've recently been thinking about a new AU idea. I most likely will not be trying to take it on with work and school currently, but I want to put it out there to see if anyone would want to take it up for me, or if people would want me to pause this series and work on this new idea.**

_Bear with me;_

Sci-fi Victorian Steampunk universe (kind of like a more modern version _Treasure Planet _ [if you haven't seen it, I recommend it; it was my childhood, it's a good movie and it's really underrated]). Where the Demon Lords are a high-class committee of actual lords and ladies, each representing their families and their wealth with their crests, which are the Demon Lord Crests. While the Royal Knights are their royal guards, that have been plotting against them for years because of their vanity, selfishness, and restricted wealth from the poor. However, a new wrench in the plan turns up suddenly with the arrival of Beelzebub, a young prince from a neighboring country, on a business trip with his mother, Queen Sayuri, looking for an audience to collect some generous donations from the lords to assist in the advancement of their kingdom after the recent and untimely death of their king. Where the youngest knight, Duke—who is fully dedicated to his brothers in arms—is assigned to watch over the prince and queen while on their stay with his mentor, Imperial. And rather quickly, Duke and Beelz, fall for each other, despite their differing statuses and the Royal Knights plans to overthrow the Demon Lords, weather Beelzebub is with them or not.

Kind of like either the 1862 Russian fairytale _The Firebird and Princess Vasilisa_ , the Danish fairytale _The Green Knight,_ or _Robin Hood_ just a little bit. But with crazy sci-fi steampunk awesomeness, like flying pirate ships, ray guns, animatronics/robots, and other crazy shit, my dudes!

[Also, Bell would be renamed to Beelzebub, while BB would be named Baal. They'd also be younger. Just to simplify stuff.]


	2. Love you for a Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Pied x Myotis]

_"I want to know you. I don't mean your favorite color, food, and your middle name. I want to know those, too, but I mean, tell me about the time you broke your arm learning to ride a bike. Tell me the nightmares you have, the struggles you've dealt with, if you ever feel alone. Tell me if there's a voice in your head that tells you "you're not good enough". Tell me your secrets, your thoughts, about your childhood, how you got that scar on your knee, if you sucked your thumb. Tell me about your first love and heartbreak. I want to know everything and I won't settle for less._

_"Because if I date you, I want it to last. If I date you, I'm dating you for a reason."_

**_-Unknown_ **

It was the first real date since high school. High school was a VERY long time ago. So, maybe the two of them had been busy. He, for one thing, wasn't one for fancy restaurants and dressing up and looking good when he knew it'd just get in the way when they got home. He wasn't one for most "traditional" dating stuff, he still struggled calling them "boyfriends". But here he was, sitting across from the other in an outfit he bought six years ago and had only worn three-times, in a midnight café far too serious for his personality. But if it made the other happy he could stay up far too late for his own good, and deal with a man that didn't like walking up before noon.

Pied wasn't a night owl; he was an early riser, a junk-foodie, and a movie fanatic. He was basically an overgrown college film student, despite not going to college, and being in his thirties. A carrot haired street acrobat in yellow rain boots. His hair was long, loosely braided and held in a teal ribbon. A white button up shirt normally made up his street get-up, however at that moment, it felt too tight around his throat and he would have killed to be back in his half-homemade tailed jacket made from a red letterman jacket from a thrift shop, and green and yellow butterfly print pants instead of the slightly too tight black slacks gripping painfully to his thighs. His face usually was covered in powdered makeup and a mask half the time for his 'work', Mylo called it 'play', but he hardly did shit for his work anyway, so Pied always told him to shut it.

Mylo was the exact opposite to the carrot-head. He was practically a vampire; stayed up late, classy, ate and drank fancy, read novels, and worked as a CEO for a company that Pied still had no idea what the company did, but Mylo had a lot of money from doing absolutely nothing, so it had to be big. He was also in his thirties and even with Pied in height. He was a thin man, far thinner than Pied, always wearing navy blue suits -Pied had caught him several times wearing a vampire cape, which he had judged the other for. He had long Swedish blond hair, preened to perfection against his pale skin and electric blue eyes framed by magenta bat-wing glasses. Mylo wasn't a social person like Pied was, he was a serious, easily-annoyed man who found little fun in life.

Why they were dating, was one question. How they ended up dating, was another. Neither were something Pied was able to explain. In fact, he couldn't. Most of the time the answer was "Love happens" with a goofy shrug. The question; why they were still dating, was one that had an actual answer that he chose not to say.

However, he was there, at some dark café at the top of a fancy hotel in a city far up north. He could barely remember the last time he went on a trip, let alone went out to eat with Mylo. The place looked roman with low colored lights and open archways to the outside with balcony seating, which was where they sat. Mylo leaned back in his chair reading over the construction paper-like menu scribed from top to bottom with wines, Pied sitting up straight in his chair busying his hands with his cup of hot chocolate, starting to feel his lower eye-lids begin to tingle. It was only 10:23 and already he had over shot his usual bedtime by an hour and a half. _Tomorrow is going to suck._

How long had they been there again? An hour or so, just sipping their drinks and munching on whatever snacks they waiter or waitress stuck on their table. Why were they there again? Something about a vacation, or, no. Was it a meeting and Mylo didn't want to leave him home alone for a few days? Or was it a little of both? Pied had lost his train of thought a while ago, any attempt of an explanation was lost to him now.

"So, why are we out here again?" Pied said with a tired rumble under his breath, as he sipped his drink for the twelfth time in five minutes with the intent of trying to wake his groggy mind, still to no avail.

Mylo just looked at him over the rims of his glasses before rolling his sharp blues in such a dramatical sense it could be consider theatrical. "Pleasure." It was Mylo's way of saying 'I have money to spend so let's go on vacation in the middle of the week', which Pied was okay with but still.

"Right." Pied let the word roll sarcastically over the length of his tongue. The next five minutes were passed in silence, with the respective chatter of the other occupants of the cafe. The silence only broken by the waitress walking over to offer refills and whatever wine Mylo had finally decided on. Once she had left another five minutes of silence reined, until she again returned with the wine and another basket of baguette slices, this time after she left only three minutes remained silent before Pied spoke up.

"So, the other day I was on the phone with my ma-..." Pied started but quickly cut himself off.

Mylo just hummed something, a half-assed noise that pretty much said 'I'm not paying attention in the slightest', his eyes cast down at the actual leather-bound menu. Pied stared at him waiting for the other to ask why he stopped or if he had finished his statement. When nothing came for several moments, Pied huffed aggressively. Mylo glanced up at him, arched one brow before looking back down wineglass halfway to his lips. Pied huffed again.

"Why do I bother? You never pay attention anyway." Pied mumbled heatedly.

Mylo looked at him over the rim of his glass, for a moment he did nothing but blink at the orangette, seemingly caught off-guard. He sighed over the contents of his glass, before placing it down on the table. Leaning forward on his forearms, taking up a posture that said he was about to go for a spell. "Your mother called the other day, the two of you had a 2-hour conversation about; how you were, how I was, your father, the discussion on what 'WE' are for the 12th time, how your cat, Joker, is doing, what we are doing for Hanukkah, followed by the 15thdiscussion that I'm not Jewish. You recently met the "cutest" little girl two days ago during "work". You helped rehome a lost puppy a week ago, and you gained a large following of pigeons that sat and watched you perform a week and a half ago. Also, it's your parents 38thwedding anniversary tomorrow."

Pied stared dumbfounded at the other, jaw slack and eyes unblinking, at the emotionless face of the vampire as his fingers interlaced and met his chin. "How the f-"

"Language. We're in public." Mylo chide at the other.

Pied just shook his head still flabbergasted hands half reaching to his hair but stopping to press back onto the tabletop. "How do you-"

"I DO pay attention. YOU don't pay attention to that." He said bluntly. When Pied looked like he was about to argue it, Mylo just raised his hand to silence him before continuing. "Haven't you noticed? I don't just ask you what your favorite color is or your middle name—I do know those as well."

"Co-" Pied started.

"Cobalt blue and Quincy." Mylo said over him perfectly, raising a brow at the other with a faint quirk to the corner of his lips as he continued. "I ask you about the best part of your day, I ask you about what you dreamed about the night before, I ask about what your childhood was like. I ask and I listen. I know you were the youngest of four, that you get lonely when I'm gone for more than two days, that you broke your leg climbing the tree in your backyard in the 3rd grade, that your first crush was on your 7thgrade math teacher, and when your sad you curl up on the couch and watch Ringing Bell in the dark."

Pied gaped at the other, lost for words almost. He flapped his jaw twice, before closing it again, plucking at the tight fabric around his thigh. He shook his head gently, absentmindedly really; he thought Mylo couldn't surprise him anymore, thought he'd reached the bottom of his bag of fun, apparently not.

Mylo continued. "I told you back when were first started, Pie, I don't date people for no reason. I started dating you for a reason, I wanted to make this last, to have a reason to stay together. 15 years later, I still love you for a reason." His pale hand sliding across the table to the other man's larger warmer hand. Mylo always ran rather cold.

Pied smiled, then chuckled as his face began to run hot. Nothing else needed to be said. He knew the reason; he was the only one to ever make Mylo smile, the only one that made him happy. And he was fine with just that, yeah, he barely saw him most days, and they had differing lifestyles, and hardly kissed for months at a time; but it still felt better than any "normal" relationship they'd get from other people. And it was fine to him.


	3. The First Time I Held You in my Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (originally written in 2015)

The quiet, simple years of ignorance and youth, were sweet and warm like summer honey. Maybe it is too romantic to call it such, yet in the eyes of those sweetened by the years of ignorance and the careless caraway of life; the description is understated. In the eyes of a young, silver haired pre-teen, the ignorance of the unknowing was the sugary syrup that only made the taste of sour lemon lust so exotic and beautiful. But it also helped solidify the ever-passionate love that would later bloom and blossom, like the thick indigo flowers just beneath the skin; the sun and water that made those flowers was the swift punch that was one kiss. But that kiss was distant at the time, and it was curious in the high school years. Yet the curiosity that birthed such invitations was first birthed in the cultivation of gay romances within these years described, where truths seemed blatant and bitter at first spitted bite.

The young days of middle school were also the somewhat less-than awkward friendship between a simple bread boy and a coy adopted blond.

Young Duke Matsuki, known more commonly at the time by his nickname "Growl", was, though not the most intellectual in the days, was blessed with dapper handsomeness and charm. Which would carry on to his older ages and would definitively seal his promise of having an equally charming and wondrous love. With his thick, messy white hair, that scuffed and fell in the perfect ways that exaggerated the already defined lines of his jaw and his cheeks, and the charcoal marks that moved shortly and quickly, scratched up his face in symmetric patterns. His large, hot gold eyes conducting warmth and friendliness with all who introduced themselves with smiles and greetings as vibrant as his eyes. Though his features were aged and lively with dapperness, Growl's dress brought his assumed age back down into a sense of reality that could be conceived as real. Though even then he was still presumed older than his looks would have lead on with. With his rolled up long sleeve red and white baseball shirt, black graphics stamped onto the material in symmetrical places, his dark blue jeans conforming to him in all the right places. His odd need to where his equally odd gloves and bandana bracelets, matching his red and white converse sneakers.

Growl, despite his looks of an eighteen-year-old, was no older than a seventh grader. Still his heart was as noble and gallant as that of the Royal Guards that confidently strode the streets they protected. And he proved his heart greatly, in the direction of the shy but violently guarded youth that Miss Ōkui took in with his brother.

Beelz "Imp" Ōkui, he was small and skinny, malnutrition—prior to his in taking by Miss Ōkui—rightfully the cause. Though he lacked kindness to some—and some being most—he did contain curtesy when Miss Ōkui, who he openly called mom, issued him to be so when they walked into the bakery. Where Growl and his family lived and worked. Imp was terribly short as his name would imply, and he possessed an interesting view on many peculiar things for someone his age; he was for the most part a contradiction of himself. He would later grow out of it, but his looks and personality remained as infatuating as ever.

Comparable to his later years, Imp at the time was far different, he was far more kid-like especially after he was adopted. His face was thin and heart-shaped, his eyes were huge emeralds, hardened and sad with little warm in them, framed in thick lashes that were far darker than his actual hair color. His skin was pale cream and dusted with faint freckles over his cheeks and across his thin, scratched up thighs. His oversized purple hooded T-shirt gave creepy looks at everyone with its bright yellow smiley face, the horned hood was always pulled as far forward as it could go; raggedy red gloves on his hands frayed at the edges and little holes dotting the cuffs, the bandana around his neck matched in color but not condition. His hair, long and thick, was braided and draped over his right shoulder, paling him even farther with its blond coloring. Khaki shorts that stopped half way down his thighs, neon green socks blending into black and white high-top shoes that looked one size too big, covered his lower half.

Imp, in Growl's eyes, was very handsome and appealing. Though cynical and rude at times, he was very cute and sweet, even his considerably smaller physique at the time made him strangely more adorable compared to his blusterous voice when he reached his violent points; which usually was saying anything longer than fifteen words at him. And though their exchanges prior were limited to spying each other over the bread counter, with the occasional "hello and hi" parental issuing, they had never really talked. Imp did seem to gain more and more confidence as the months after his integration into real life passed, mostly from his mother and his brother, Candles', growing joy, along with his new siblings shared joy.

Miss Ōkui's boyfriend and father to her four-year-old daughter and her one-year-old son, on the other hand, was an asshole and in general was a useless, over-grown loser. Where he'd show up at her house, take most of her food, watch her TV, stink up her living room, and leave to who-knows-where, then come back smelling of fast food and cigarettes, and playing Call of Operatives on the easiest mode where he did nothing but camp with his ugly weapon. Many people questioned why Sayuri decided to be with him in the first place, she for the most part seemed to question it herself; course she also assumed he would change at some point. That idea, however, shrank more and more by the day.

Beside the point. Growl found Imp interesting, and though not in the same class, they went to the same school. Hardly anyone talked to Imp, except maybe Cal, who would talk to him and his brother whenever Jeri was cup-caking with Growl's older brother, Takato. Takato, though considered older due to him being one year older, truly was no older than an angry seven-year-old refusing to take a nap. For some vengeful reason beyond anyone's comprehension, Takato was very hostile toward Imp; the feeling was mutual. Though this became inconvenient later in life, this did not hinder Growl's interest in Imp.

For Growl, it was one of those days his parents had left him and Takato in charge of the bakery while they went to the market. It was slow and empty, and at one-point Takato went upstairs to go do some homework, since he had nothing productive to do with no one there. Leaving Growl to sweep the shop floor and the front steps, jostling the low-hanging wind chimes with his head multiple times. The sun was cool and mellow in the spring air, filled with cherry petals, fresh drizzles of coming rain, and soft lighting from storms rolling in the distance. It was almost distracting; it was such a peaceful day.

The quick patter of clonking rubber on concrete and the hushed mutterings of someone still coping with a normal, non-life-threatening lifestyle, scuttled into the peaceful serenity of the narrow side street of small storefront homes. Growl glanced up from his sweeping to see Imp walking obscurely up the sidewalk. Hunched heavily over a paper bag full of assorted goods, cradled in his right arm firmly, a slip of yellow lined paper in his other. His giant emerald eyes squinted at the paper pugnaciously, while ranging the paper in varying distances in front of his face. Obviously struggling to read what was scribed on the slip, as well as watch where he was going.

Imp bumped his knee against a potted plant one of the neighbors had; within an instant the slighter reacted as if he had just kicked a nuclear bomb off a table. Jumping over the obstacle, tripping over his own ankles upon trying to run on landing, then stumbling oddly into the taller male standing in his path. This then spurred Imp into a new state of fight or flight, where his reaction was to go ridged after Growl's hiccupped chuckles graced the smaller male's ears. Which caused Imp to then stare owlishly at the taller.

Growl just stared down at the smaller, dopey grin consuming the space between his ears, his eyes glittering with humor. It was an expression that naturally covered his face, however, in that instant it made Imp's skin prickle and his face turn warm with something that wasn't his normal snarky anger, yet he'd sooner die than admit it.

"Are you okay, Imp?" Growl piped, chipperly. Noticing the pink blush over the blonde's face. The shorter did nothing but stare for several moments, before regaining himself.

Normally, Imp would have shoved whoever it was away and blurt out a half-assed reply, before marching off. Yet, with Growl, he simple gathered up the bag between them, not looking the other in the eye and stepped back with a half-mumbled "I'm f-fine."

"If you say so, need any help with anything?" Growl said, steading the other before turn to collect his fallen broom, not expect the smaller to answer.

"Um." Imp started, lost for a moment as he tried to uncrumple the list in his hand "Could, could you help me read this, I can't really see Ms. Ōkui's handwriting." He turned the paper slightly but didn't hand it over to the other. Growl, reunited with his broom, sidled up next to the smaller. His back arching sharply so his breath ghosted over Imp's ear as he looked over the list; noticing Imp's ears taking on a similar red on the tips. His large gold eyes roving over the crossed-out items from top to bottom, until he hit the last and only not crossed-out item on the paper.

""2 loafs bread- Sourdough" I can get that for you, come on in." Growl said pulling back, extending his arm to the propped open door to the bakery, letting Imp walk in first before following behind. Leaning his broom up against the wall adjacent to the door, then striding over to the counter to gather up the items. "You might actually need glasses if you can't see something up close."

Imp said nothing, however his eyes widened a fraction and his head jerked back slightly. His eyes roved the floor following that. Growl for the most part paid no mind to the other's reaction as he pulled the two largest loafs from the display case, knocking on each once to make sure they were still fresh, before sliding each into a paper bag.

"...You think I'd look good with glasses?" Imp suddenly piped, as Growl looked over at him as he punched in the numbers at the register. Imp still didn't look up from the floor his face caught between a curious flush and actual thought. His feet pigeon toeing together and his fingers kneading the brown paper bag in his arms. His eyes glancing up from under his lashes at the taller. It was adorable.

Growl beamed brightly at the other. "Absolutely. Especially black framed ones, they'd go great with your eyes." He punched in the last number for the register to spit out the number and open the drawer before getting shut. Growl scribbled the number down with 'Ms. Ōkui' written horribly on a sticky note and tucked up under the register for later. Sayuri could pay them back later, she always did.

He walked around the counter again with the bag, not wanting to bother Imp with going over the counter, he tucked the bag into the larger one in Imp's arms. He smiled close to the other's face in a gesture that was a little more than friendly. "...Thank you." Imp coyly muttered, his face growing brighter than before, as Growl backed up.

"You're welcome." Waving as the smaller walked out, turning up the street to walk home. Paying more attention to where he was going this time as he went. Growl stood there a little longer, leaning back against the counter, oblivious to the $10 bill left by the shorter, looking down at his hands. He still felt the warmth of Imp in his arms.

It wasn't until Monday he saw Imp again; black framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.


	4. Morning Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Sayuri x Imperial]

Dawn was a beautiful time in many ways. The colors of the sky as the sun slowly rose, the cool night air giving one last breath, the dew covering every surface in the first glimmering beams of the waking day. Dawn was a time Imperial marveled at ever since his youth as a teen, waking early to walk to school in the sunless hour before sunrise. Watching the pastel watercolors blur away the deep velvet night, blinking away the stars until the last one left glimmered even brighter in the soft pinks and blues before shuttering out completely in the bright light of the sun.

He'd always been a morning person, even when he was a baby his mother talked about him being up before the sun—something he carried with him now in his fifties. Dawn was a time he scarcely remembered being the loneliest time of his days. Being the hours hardly anyone was awake, and was his time to think and marvel in his solitude, even if he didn't like the loneliness it left him with, with his coffee and near extinct smoke. However, he no longer lived alone in his apartment, in fact, he no longer lived in the apartment. Having recently moved in with his girlfriend and her two younger children, three months back.

Sayuri Ōkui; the woman of his dreams, his everything, really. She was beautiful and amazing and perfect in every way, even her imperfections. She was someone he was missing in his life and honestly the only one he'd ever need had he the choice. But, then again, all her children were perfect too, and a needed part in his life as well. Bell and BB, Ai and Mako, even Behemoth, the goliath DDM that was as much a part of their big family as anyone else. Having a family was never something he gave much thought too, he didn't see himself as the kind of man to marry and have kids, much too preoccupied with the Royal Knights ever since they formed the organization. That was then however, now he couldn't imagine spending a day without Sayuri, couldn't imagine living without Ai and Mako's big smiles and funny expressions, couldn't think about not hearing BB's stories, nor could he pretend Bell wasn't his most proud investment, even if he wasn't at all related to him. But Sayuri meant the world to him, and he adored everyday he could wake up next to her.

However, it wasn't usual for him to wake up to an empty bed. Usually she'd wake up about the same time as him, or would be up upon hearing him get up. Whenever she had woken up before him it meant something was off—that her instincts were telling her something was wrong. Being a mother made her that way, especially with kids like Bell and BB under her roof.

The kitchen was still warm when he made it down—coffee already made and tea still warming on its stand. Getting himself a cup of coffee he wandered over to the front door, the porch being the main spot for the family's social interaction. On one side was a swinging bench, angled to face the opposite corner of the porch, with small tables on either end, and surrounded by several of Sayuri's gorgeous potted plants, that even in the chilly dawn, were bright and flourishing. On the other side, was a small glass table with three wood and steel chairs surrounded by even more plants and flowers, an Apollo windchime hanging from the overhang.

Imperial breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted Sayuri sitting on the bench. Sitting on one of her legs while dangling the other off the bench, her cognac sweats barely keeping her legs warm, the oversized olive t-shirt hardly doing anything either falling off one shoulder and barely holding on to the other, the only thing that gave him solace that she wasn't freezing was the large, wool knitted cream-grey cardigan wrapped around her arms and middle. Her long light brown hair a mess of waves and curls draping over her shoulders, head leaning against one of the posts holding the bench. Her hands resting in her lap with a cup of tea.

"Up so early?" he said opening the front door and leaning against the doorframe, maybe he should have put a shirt on or a jacket, the frame felt cold against his shoulder and the air was making his skin rise with goosebumps, his coffee the only solace for his one hand while shoving the other into the pocket of his sweatpants. "You usually don't wake up before me."

"I don't know. Something just didn't feel right." Sayuri replied, swaying in the bench a little, her toes barely touching the slightly damp wood planks of the porch. "Mother's intuition I suppose." She mumbled looking out at the picket fence and ivy across the sparkling green lawn in the soft blue grey light.

"Are the kids alright?" His tone taking a slightly worried note in it.

"Dead asleep when I checked on them. But its not them I'm worried about." She didn't turn away from the lawn, still whispering to him across the porch.

"Did you call either of them?" He said, pushing off from the frame and walking over to sit next to her on the bench. It was a little startling to do so seeing as none of the Ōkui's exceeded 155lbs, and the bench had yet to handle the 220lbs man.

"I know better than to baby them. They're both old enough to call when they really need it." She turned to look at him, looking over his tired face, a soft smile gently curling her lips as her already half-lidded eyes drooped even more. Shaking her head as she looked toward the floor before her. "Maybe I'm just hitting that age." Feeling Imperial's hand brush her hair off her bare shoulder, sliding across the broad line of her shoulders before cupping his hand over the opposite shoulder.

"Rather be safe then sorry. Promise me you'll call them later and ask, okay?" He said leaning in and kissing her shoulder. Tasting the cool air against her freckled skin.

"I will, 'Peri, I will." The end of the sentence was quiet, almost whispered over the edge of her cup, sipping at her tea.

Silence fell over the two, content with sitting in the early dawn watching the pastel sky blink to life over the silhouetted building of the city in the distance, sipping their drinks and resting together nicely on the bench. Sayuri shifting at one point to rest against Imperial's bare chest, who was leaning against the other end of the bench. After awhile however, Imperial put his cup down and pulled Sayuri closer to him, putting her cup along with his in the process. Sayuri, confused went along with it, until he had her where he wanted her; practically lying on top of him as they stretched out across the whole bench, one of his legs bent to press the flat of his foot on it, while his other hung off and rocked the bench back and forth—their faces even with one another.

"I love you, Sai." He said, lovestruck stare never wavering away from hers.

"I love you too, 'Peri." She smiled back, pressing her lips against his in a soft kiss. It wasn't the first time they'd said it, nor would it be the last. It was something neither thought they'd ever say—one never believing they would be in such a relationship, the other never believing they would be back in one at all—but here they were, in love and perfectly so in the early lights of something new.

"My beautiful morning star." He mumbled against her soft smile, knowing all too well how she adored the gentle praise, something her prior boyfriend never offered. Feeling her thin but powerful fingers comb through his tri-colored locks, brushing the rings on his ears and rubbing at the stubble on his cheeks with her thumbs. Eyes peaking open for rich rubies to scan over hazel greens, staring half-lidded right back.

"My handsome midnight sun." They chuckled against one another, feeling warm lips brush one another once more in the early glimmers of the sun. They would have to get the kids up soon for school, and get themselves ready for work, but right then and there nothing needed to be said or done; they had right now to themselves in the early dawn of a horrendous day for another.


	5. The Monster Haunts Me Now (Comic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Bells' Nightmare Comic]

 

 

That was a terrible dream. But, was it really a dream? It only gets worse from here.


	6. Thoughts of Impending Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Bell x Duke]  
> Someone new joins the fray.

It had been a long time. Seven years. And he still remembered the first morning like this. A spring morning, a slightly chilly awakening with the soft mist in the windows, shining like gold in dusty beams of sunlight into the plain white room of his apartment. An ache in his hips and a feeling in his chest that felt a little hollow, however the warmth that wrapped around his belly felt priceless and magnificent. Even after waking up from a nightmare with the feeling of pins crawling up his throat, like he was about to vomit a hedgehog, leaving him lying there in his messed-up bed with dry throat as he stared at Duke, dead to the world, sleeping on his stomach, half of his back covered by the sheets.

Seven years. And he still felt like this.

A feeling of living; of being wanted, of being loved, being cared for, of being alive. He never had the best life, most would say the worst, but he somehow made it to where he was. The youngest member of the Demon Lord Association working on his Bachelor's degree of art, with an amazing gold medal champion of a mom, the current chairholder of the Royal Knights Organization for a dad, three younger siblings, and the most amazing man to ever come into his life as his boyfriend. The Goddess must really be proud of him, truly.

Seven years, and yet he still felt something hollow in him, something empty yet to be filled. It was a feeling he'd always known, and he hated it so much he wanted to cry; that feeling where he couldn't stand something for a second with the instant, absolute frustration of not knowing what to do about it and not being able to do anything. It was worse than death. Worse than the painful never-ending miserable silence that so rotted his brain and liquidized his lungs in the most painful ways.

The feeling of the past still burrowed in his soul.

That self-destructive sense where your very mental state wanted you dead in the empty spaces like these. Like being in love; like the space of the morning after, where you woke up early and stared at your partner, where you thought about how they could so easily replace you with someone better. Staring at the muscular bumps and dips of Duke's shoulders with his arms tucked under his pillow and his long wheat gold hair splayed out across his back in ribbons. _He'd look better with his natural hair_. Imagining the larger male's naturally albino locks, the snow-white mess of hair that looked so dashing on the tan Knight.

Where you think about everything you've never told him.

There were a lot, if not an infinite, number of things that he'd never told Duke, never told his mother; BB only knew half of it and the rest, he could only piece together so much. Bell never even told him what their biological parents' names were; let alone about their history. Something SHE told him during her sober moments, the times when HE was gone, and SHE was stumbling between the bathroom and the locked room where the cannabis was growing. He would have felt sorry for her if she ever looked sorry for what she did. Neither of them ever did.

In his head, he thought of every way he'd make them pay if he ever met them again.

He'd thought of everything from reasonable and polite with the lemon burns in scars attitude—thinking how fucking stupid that would be—to Sayuri with Joshua, only more violent, more vicious and monstrous. Slow hot knives through abdomens and fancy cutlery and silver platters of organ meats and gauntlets of blood wine. He'd punch the fuck out of that man's face with a chain of barbed wire wrapped around each of his knuckles. Thought about stapling that woman's skin to the drywall and dumping scalding water over the plaster. He hated them. He wanted them dead. He wanted them both wrapped in cement at the bottom of the sea somewhere. He hated them so much. They needed to die. Going to _die. Dead. **DEAD. DEAD!**_

Duke rolled over a little, now facing the blond. Humming something called contentment. His face was stupid, all smiley even in his sleep, happy and sweet despite his lack of being awake. He could make flowers bloom with how sunny his personality was. Even when they were kids still peering out at one another through the display glass of a bread counter, and half 'hellos' issued by parents. Small talk turning to conversations to the point where the concept of being called best friends was an understatement. Till the day the dirty marked face of War G in some dingy white tee shirt, red and grey puffy vest, and muddy torn jeans with his matted and sweat slick hair, stuck a bouquet of spring in his arms and asked the blond out on a date.

Duke still tells the story of why he was so filthy that day like a bad joke that still makes everyone laugh. And is still issued the best "how we first started dating" story to exist among their friends. It was one of those stories you see in romantic comedies, but that was another story for another day.

He felt it again, that prickling in his esophagus, it burned like acid but it rose with a sense of anxiety, like something was going to happen and yet there was nothing pointing that there would be. That anxious feeling that crawled under your skin, worse than his own nails ripping and tearing at his windpipe. Something was looming over him—the shadow, the outline of the person that ruined him; the eyes that stared back as his with the essence of power. This monster was a man that was once revered, lost in a shell of who-knew-what anymore.

He could hear Behemoth and Grani whine and shuffle in their doggie bed in the living room. He remembered Duke locking the bedroom door at some point on their way in last night, leaving the two mutts to do as they pleased in the other room; disturbingly common for them to take after their humans in times like those. Their bed was set up under the glass coffee table in the middle of the living room, originally to save space only to never be moved again, unless Bell needed to vacuum. He could hear them; Grani got up, bumping his back against the underside of the table as he turned in a half circle to rest his head on Behemoth's rear, most likely. Behemoth stretched his front legs out like a cat, before rolling over to face the other way, so Grani was somewhat spooning the larger.

Duke made another noise, like a soft snore, but didn't wake; drawing Bell's attention back to the other male. He looked so peaceful in the early dawn, the light moving to hit the man fully in a gold sunbeam; his hair looked golden blond, skin shining in the light—the sudden image of sunflowers sprouting and growing out of the Knight's back, a stick of wheat hanging from his mouth and a straw cowboy hat siting on his snow-white head. Bell smiled to himself, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing—he'd need to ask Duke about dressing up as a cowboy for Halloween this year.

Bell ran his fingertips along Duke's arm, the toned and muscular bicep stretched out in front of his fingers; being a bread baker was quite the work out, not to mention the rest of his work life. The man could lift Saint, not an easy feat when the green giant was nearing 6'7" and weighing in twice that of the Knight; Bell could barely lift Grani and the dog was only 75lbs. He tried convincing Duke to get a tattoo once, he had a perfect structure for some, tattoo artists would drool over printing anything on a taught canvas like him—Bell drooled at the idea of sketching out something to put on the other. Yet, Duke turned him down on the offer, he didn't have the money to get tattooed, barely having enough money to keep his fridge full half the time. Granted he technically had two fridges, what with spending time on and off at Bell's.

His fingers glided over toward Duke's face, running his index finger along his cheek, to his brow line, down his nose, back along his cheek and across his lips. Duke was such a handsome man, what did he see in someone like Bell, _what does he see in me_ , they had plenty of classmates—male, female, and in between—that would jump at the chance to date him. Hell, BB would if he felt so inclined to, he didn't, and he wouldn't bother even if his life depended on it, thankfully. Duke could get anyone he wanted in a twenty-mile radius; why did he stay with him?

"Why me, of all people?" Bell said, cupping his hand around Duke's jaw, his thumb sliding under the corner of Duke's slightly upturned lips. Leaning in, he pressed his lips feather lightly against the Knight's, they were dry and they both most likely had morning breath, but did it really matter? Not really. "I love you."

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the morning birds chirping away outside, Duke's soft breathing and heartbeat, Behemoth and Grani snoring lightly in the other room, a car or two driving by in the morning mist. It was peaceful, Bell could see himself falling back to sleep and getting woken back up later by Duke snuggling into his back, asking if a morning spunk was too much to ask for after last night. If he played it up enough maybe he could get a persuasive rimming out of the larger. Yeah, that seemed like a nice idea; sadly, life doesn't play that way.

_Ring, ring, ring._

The phone rang, a soft chime of bells jingling like an old-timey box phone; _ring, ring, ring_.

The phone never rang. No one ever called him on his house phone, it was a number so off the grid it wasn't even written in the phone books, he'd never given out his house number, Hell, he didn't even KNOW his house number, it was just part of the building. _Ring, ring, ring_. Duke stirred a little but didn't wake, leaving Bell to deal with the call. _Maybe if I ignore_ \- _Ring, ring, ring_. Duke stirred more, still not waking. _Fine._

He got up from the bed, careful with how he threw the covers off him, quickly grabbing and putting on his sweatpants and a shirt from the night before, as he shuffled to the door which haunted him from his dream. The phone was on a table between the front door and the kitchenet, an old black 1970's rotary phone that was part of the building, a layer of dust coating the machine describing its misuse. The only person that knew the number was Mr. Matador, because, landlord and what not, other than that it was written on an index card and taped under the ebony box.

Gripping the handle of the curved receiver, he took a deep breath in through his nose before lifting the thing to his head slowly with a click. Holding the speaker to his ear and the receiver to his mouth he spoke a very clear, confused "Hello?"

For a moment, no one answered, almost believing that he'd gotten a telemarketer, he had half a mind to put the phone down. But that prickling came back, reaching from his stomach to his uvula, something wasn't right.

"...Hello, is this Beelz Ōkui?" A deep familiar voice rumbled curiously through the speaker, a husky older tone, with enough of a clear undertone that could be identified as an older male with damaged lungs. Bell raked his brain for a possible identity of the voice but was lost completely in the process.

"Yes, speaking. Who is this?" He asked with confusion still prevalent in his tone. Not anyone from DLA, not from the mechanics shop, he didn't think any of his professors would call him, none of his friends would bother with that, his "relatives" never called and if they did it would be to Sayuri. No one, not a single person came to mind when he heard that voice. His throat was clamping up, his stomach suddenly hurting and a throbbing in the base of his skull resonated down his back and through his head. Something wasn't right.

"...This is-" Before the other could even finish, the memory clicked into place, sending the long shut down gears to tighten and turn once more, it triggered horror, fear, pain, and tears. Absolute unrelenting horror, terror ripping through his entire body, and a gawking click vibrated against his hand as he shoved it against his mouth holding back vomiting. His body shivered like he was freezing and he collapsed to his knees. His head was spinning, flying in a way that made him want to lie down, tears rolled down his face, his eyes unblinking as he stared at the floor. He couldn't even feel Duke's arms wrap around his waist rubbing the flats of his warm knuckles against his knotting stomach, on the verge of purging its contents. He couldn't even hear Behemoth and Grani whimpering behind him, or Duke asking if he was okay, pleading for him to answer, readying to rip the phone from his hands. But his grip was already wavering to the point of dropping it, and he did once his worst, most petrifying fear of his life was uttered through the speaker.

"Baälze Meephos... I'm your father." The receiver was slammed hard onto the switch hook as he vomited up clear watery acid on the floor mixing with the near endless stream of tears pouring from his face.


	7. Table Scraps for the Gluttonous Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [WARNING: Descriptive language of blood, gore, drug abuse, mental abuse, and mentioned (but not descriptive) pedophilia and rape.]  
> [Also, apparently “Baälze” is pronounced “Balls”, I’m still going to pretend it’s pronounced “Bails” cause I’m in charge here.]

The table was set for four. The four members that made up this horrific "family". It was a mockery of such, no one could look at another without a burning ache, a spiteful death wish, that burned harder and hotter with every memory, every thought, every look that had to be shared between them in any moment. This was no "family", this was a sad reality, one so romanticized that it's the premise for what a real family should be in the diluted empty rendition for teen movies, a guts-and-glory bar fight of a genetically tied ancestral line. This was a game of self-restraint for one, and that one was the most violent and blood thirsty at the whole table.

Two large, cobweb covered, gothic candelabras—made of heavy, ornate metal with four bloodshot candles that had melted over their holding cuffs to stain the base with pinkish wax—sat roughly on the one-third marks at either end of the long gothic table. Platters, tier trays, plates and servers covered the table piled with harvests of fruits, vegetables, breads, cakes and butchered meats of varying animals; rotting away on the charred surface of the table, smothered by cobwebs, puffy mold and the thick, shiny, buzzing ooze called flies. Tall crystal goblets filled with dark crimson liquids in fluctuating stages of coagulation were set at each pew with a smaller glass of stagnant water. Short but ornate tea cups and saucers on the opposite hand of the setting; porcelain white cups with gold flake edges and pin-point black and red designs from rim to base, leaving the triangular handles to remain painfully small and plain. Filled with clouded, stale dirt colored tea with black and white buoys of larva. Each dinner plate had a portion of once appetizing food; a mix of baked vegetables with gravy, fruits of apt seasonal ripeness and drizzled with a sugar syrup, and a portion of varying meat sliced and plated perfectly, all of which had gone foul and collected mold, fuzz, and wriggled with peachy-white maggots. All set before a magnificent marble fireplace that stretched from floor to ceiling with majestic carvings centering around angelical imagery, irony at its finest.

Starting with the beginnings, at one end of the table in his lavish ebony and ruby throne with a rusted farce once called a crown resting on the outer rim of his plate, sat the one that started it all.

Baälze Meephos. A taller man, well in his late-40's, with a collection of scars on his face and down his neck—the most notable were two long vertical ones stretching from his eyebrow down over the ridge of his cheek on the center his left eye. He had similar hair to both of his offspring, medium-long golden blonde hair, tossed and preened in a way that looked like a waft of fire, however, two sections of hair were left draped on either side of his face; his bangs were long and slicked back as well, yet they were colored a royal purple, splayed in a crown along his slicked locks. His jaw was sharp and diamond shaped, with hollow cheekbones, and a tall perky nose. His eyes bore that of his first heir, once a bright bottle green, they had deteriorated to a lackluster olive-chartreuse from years of maltreatment and age—a loss of being truly alive, really.

His form of dress preached that he was once someone important, even admired as a good man. His absurd looking suit was dark as pitch with a long flowing cloak that split into duel tails. The outer blazer of his suit was short—stopping just below his chest—the lapels forming a wide hood in behind his head, held to his shoulders by several buckled straps and spiked shoulder pads; an eggplant strap with three mighty spikes per shoulder. He had muscular arms, wide chest and shoulders that tapered down to a smaller waist and long muscular legs; he was still a very fit man for his age and life condition. Around his neck laid a rosewood bandana that covered the charcoal button-up shirt the showed along his belly and tucked into his pants. On both of his hips were black plates with gold outliers attached to his matching belt, holding up his pants. Boot cut pants that merged into the metal ankle armor hooked into the heels of the ebony and gold clawed boots. His forearms clad in gold gauntlets, covering from his elbows, across the backs of his weathered hands. Hands that massively outsized that of both his spawns', with hard dagger-like nail that were blackened from the inside of his roots.

Baälze was once a man of promise and greatness, one of the original knights to form the Royal Knights Organization and, ironically, the Knight of Home and Heavens now known as the Empty Seat. Funny, how a man for home and heavenliness, could have been the very reason his house wasn't a home; that he was the very reason his children lived in Hell for years. He was the man that destroyed a girl's life so she never knew what living was like past the radiator. The one who carved an image of greatness for himself while at home he drugged and raped a teenager with a child, barely even one-year old yet, watching from the closet slats. He was the one that disappeared from the spotlight when the second child came, wanting to keep her under the illusion that he was all she needed; he needed the power over someone completely, that no one else mattered but his hand, even as he tied up his children in zip-ties and offered them up to the highest bidder.

He wasn't a man in the eyes of his tablemates, he was a monster.

Not even she could look at him without distain in her hazy gloom. The woman sitting to his left with little to no life in her body as she slumped against the back of her black wheelchair; a mason jar of twinkling fireflies and a singular wasp nest nestled among the rotting food on her plate. He ruined her life. Was the reason her life was ending, so fast, so soon in a life she never got to live. She was only 16 when he started wrapping his sickening cicada legs around her. When she fell for the illusion of his power, fell for a monster in human flesh. She was dying because of him.

Haya Adephagia. The smallest person at the table, at 37, she was worse for ware, looking more like a mummified skeleton. Her long dirty blond hair was brittle and straw-like but solid enough to braid into a loose mermaid, her skin was paler than snow and aged terribly, yet she held on to her once youthful looks that her oldest still remembered vaguely; heart shaped, with a small refined nose, and round lips stained a dry blush color that bordered white. Her large round eyes were depressing, a once shimmering magenta rose now a blurry, blind grey-albino that hardly contained a spark of color. The rest of her fared no better. She was terribly thin, and small—a naturally petite woman who was stunted further due to the drugs—her hands were small and thin like the rest of her, her nails were short and round with a similar charcoal base; they were unseen however, lost in the long flaps of her sleeves. She could barely move with her physical state.

Haya's dress was more formal and appealing to look at, despite it not being hers, having never worn more than what BaÃ¤lze left untorn and wearable for her. A medieval witch's dress that pooled around her on the floor; it was a pitch color with wine designs outlining the warlock hood, sweetheart neckline, the pointed waistline belt and the hems of the wide sleeves. Along the center of the dress starting from the width of the neckline down to the hem of the dress was a slightly less visible wine pattern that gave the dress a little more personality, despite the lack of such from the wearer. It was pulled taught by the blood ribbon of the corset in the back, yet it still hardly clung to her thin body. Around her neck was a vampire choker that was far too large for her slender neck; an ornate black lace band resting over her collarbones, a large gold broach with a ruby crystal jewel, and several gold braided chains looping around the edges with small red dewdrop jewels hanging from them. It was an outfit that she couldn't put on herself in her condition; eyes unblinking and breath so shallow it looked like she wasn't breathing at all.

When she was 15, she was a normal girl, not a bad bone in her being and not a bad word said about her. She was a nice and smart girl with the whole world ahead of her. Unfortunately, Baälze was a detour in her path and she sadly followed his every misdirection. He had used his image as a Knight to sway her to believe him, to do as he said, and become his little cloth doll. And once she gave him all her trust, all her devotion, he ripped her apart—shredded her seams, from her fabric down to her plastic brain and rubber heart—then stitched her back up with only himself in mind. Stuffed her limp puppet form full of needles and cannabis, lies and maggots, and his own filthy fluids; only to rip her apart again with two children she half knew. She had trusted him with all her heart only to be left in a state of realization, desperation, and Stockholm. Forcibly filling her eldest's head with all the truth she could recall in her sober states of pain, misery and hate. A hate for herself, for believing every lie that monster told her before being dragged back down into the dark pit of overdosing on something she didn't want, but was forced to crave. Now, she was a creature, one that craved nothing more than death. No more drugs. No more monsters. Just a craving for the cancer to hatch from its nest of paper and fester—to take every light left in her fragile glass body, to devour it with a newborn hunger, killing itself from its own ravenous appetite. Like the wasp in the jar.

She wasn't a monster, just a creature forced from circumstance.

Her eyes were dead, staring at her lively counterpart across the table; the youngest at the table. His plate was filled to the brim with molding and rotting food, spilling over the edges and oozing with the dark clotting blood and solidified tar of the dead dove that was placed face up to show the poorly cut open belly; it's entrails half pulled out and filled to overflow with ash wax and molasses tar. He had the least memory of the events of those young years of his life, born with porous memory and born young into the life of the monsters, but a knowledge of actions, of deeds, and of the nights and days spent living homeless in a concrete shelter in the middle of the park that seemed so far away from the pealing wallpaper wood beams in a house so claimed to be a home.

Beelzebub Ōkui. Named after his biological co-creator to his left, he was known shortly as "BB" for the multiple 'B's in his title. A young 19-year old with promise in his bright garnet eyes, they were sharp and focused, a trained skill that came with what his belief required. His face was similar to that of his elder and his ancestor, a diamond shaped jaw, defined cheek bones, sharp nose and bow-shaped lips. His hair a vibrant golden blond with a sharp streak of blue-violet, stacked in a bail of golden locks in the back with his bangs mused about to set in a clean swoop to his left, two long threaded braids of golden hair hung from behind his left ear down over his shoulder. His normal piercings exchanged for black rings and ruby studs, a large red crystal vampire earring hung from the first lobe piercing on his right ear -a silver base that cascaded down into a thin silver braid with a single crystal, down into a long silver brooch holding a marquise crystal with a single black feather. A vintage black lace phantom mask covered his left eye in intricate spirals and lines.

He sat straight in his wine-colored chair, his hands resting on the Jean Dubost Laguiole marble handled silverware, the dust collecting on his clawed fingertips—they were shorter, flatter points but sharp and painful, especially with the steel vampire claws on both of his middle fingers—as he glanced between both ends of the table. His outfit was far too fancy for his tastes, a simpler man in his wardrobe choses. A vampire cavalier black vest jacket with a Victorian tapestry pattern over a gothic Count button up shirt tucked into a pair of black dress pants with a steel and ruby belt. His wide shoulders and muscled arms strained the fabric of his shirt, which he had rolled up to expose the loss of his left forearm. Shaped near identically to its flesh twin, a jet-black robotic forearm lined with paper thin seams along the synthetic muscles, glimpses of rubber mesh and wires in between the joints of fingers; etchings in beautiful patient patterns, images of wild rhubarb, and cactus flowers with hieroglyphs of Goddess scripture, all stained with silver in the creases. A gift from his sibling, and made with every ounce of passion he had in his being; a gift he never took for granted.

Beelzebub hardly remembered the faces of the two older occupants of the table, never knew their names, their stories; they were wet paint smears on a drying canvas, a detailed oil painting with blurred out faces. However, he recalls the deeds done, the actions that spoke so loud they were the only noises heard. Most of his memory was of his sibling; his emotions, his faces of angry and distress, his actions, his devotion to keeping the younger alive. He lacked the large orchard of hate and spite that bloomed in the white fog of rage the elder had cultivated for himself, yet he wasn't pure or honest either, he hated them too in his own little patchwork garden, he would not lie; however, it was about meeting them again that he lied about. He did want to find them, only to tear them limb from limb, make a banquet like the one before him with their corpses and have it rot and putrefy like everything else, just for his sibling. He hated them, he would not lie, but the sarcasm of his own thoughts drowned out anything truthful.

He was an angel with tar feathers and a throne of crimson bluff.

His eyes took one last glance to the final inhabitant of the table. On his plate sat the severed head of a wild hog, still warm to the touch and blood still pouring out, drenching over the plate, down to the table and spilling over into the lap of the seat's host. It's long, course, ebony fur pressed against the flat width of its skull; wider than a palm's width across. The four tusks jutting out from both its upper and lower jaws, and curving back sharply to point back at the opposing eye to each side. It's bloodshot eyes staring up at the man it was placed before; flies already gathering around thing's still moist snout, and into the drooling mouth. The only one at the table with a fiercer bite, a nastier snarl, an empty belly that rumbled with unsatisfied gluttony in a male so slim he was near bone. Yet his being was prone, vibrating with a vengeance that clawed its way out of hell to stay alive, to stare down the long table wanting nothing more than to just sprite down its length and snap his jaws around the older man's jugular to the point of completely beheading him. He was the one with rage, violence and hunger; a cannibalistic craving of revenge that was eating his insides away more and more the longer he locked eyes with the monster that birthed him in a life that left him feeling unfilled to everyone he loved. He was more monster than the one he was staring at.

Beelz Ōkui. The eldest child of Baälze Meephos, the youngest member of the Demon Lords Association, and the one person at the table with the mindset to kill. He sat slightly hunched over, his long thin hands curled into the charred surface of the wood, leaving behind gruesome dents, pealing back the layers of wood with his large sharp talons. His face was a younger unscarred version of his opponent, with similar hair stacked and preened back, however his bangs took the same appearance as his sibling but with a streak of plum and sweeping to his right. His eyes peered over thin glasses, however they differed from the normal geek frames he wore, instead they were emerald shaped with a blood tint in black vampire frames. They rested low on his nose, letting his naked emerald eyes, shining with electricity, peer over the tinted lens. His mouth formed a deep frown mirroring his pinched brows, his glare plain and obvious.

His form of dress was not uncommon for him, having worn suits and formal attire more than once in his life, this was slightly more extravagant than what he'd worn in the past. His shirt was a midnight colored Victorian gothic dress shirt with shiny opal buttons, a matching aristocrat burgundy tapestry vest laid over it, it's ornate silver buttons catching the dim lights of the raging fire behind him in the fireplace. A matching Versailles black tapestry coat rested over the top of his narrow form, it's lapels spreading out from his center like fabric wings and fastened in place with similar silver buttons--it's cuffs far too wide for his slim wrists. An ornate winged medieval emerald pendant hung in the center of his shirt collar, a necklace he wished he could claim as a gift from his lover; however, he knew it was little more than mist choking him. His black slacks held in place by the leather strap of a chain belt and a steel buckle.

Beelz was young, comparatively, only being two years older than his younger sibling, and seventeen years younger than his biological mother. And as the youngest member of the DLA—the opposing organization from the monster's previous career—it was quite clear. However, his life differed greatly following their relocation, he and BB had a new family, one that cared, that was full of everything minus the drugs, pain, and hatred. They had a loving mom who fought for them and their younger siblings, a step-father who loved every one of them despite not being related to either, and friends of every kind giving smiles and hugs out like they were dying tomorrow. And the treasure of his life being the man that made up his whole world, and the love of his life; had he known about this horror show of a biological grouping, he would have already had a lance through the center of the monster's head. Yet, that would have been too easy for his own liking. He wanted the monster to suffer, slow and miserably.

He was the worst by far, his brain filled with gruesome horror shows, a living corpse strapped down to the banquet table being eaten alive by the very maggots that writhe within the monster's brain. Peeling back the flesh like his nails on the wood, snap his sternum out and flay the cracked chest offering anyone a glass of the bodily wine as the monster screamed and cried out in agony, like the internal agony he lived through every day thinking about how his life was the result of a power-hungry monster that raped a girl unconscious for the hell of it. She was no better, in her soberer fits when the monster was gone—to preach his good image as an honest man—she'd grip his wrists with iron fists as she spilled her stories and memories, told of her real life as a human being, who she was once and how the world was once something she thought was a good place full of honesty and righteousness. Of the feeling. That was the worst. The feeling of what it did, physically and mentally; of the needles, smoke and breathing in tar, of the penetration, the first, the second, down to the hundredth and the thousandth. The feeling of blacking out and understanding what death is. What silence truly is. She was no saint, she dragged down anybody with her, just so she wasn't alone like her heart was in the tar hole called her chest. They were both monsters of the same ebony fabric, crafted under the same textile machine; this was once white silk they were all made from, stained by the oil of the machine of flies.

He was the hungry maw of a new breed, a new monster of elegance and viciousness.

He was the Prince of Liars, sibling to the Heir of Irony; the only living children of the Lord of the Flies. She was the remaining corpse of the Maiden of Fireflies, left to be raped over and over by the Knight of the now Empty Seat.

They were the Gluttonous Flies eating away the scraps of the first family meal they never had.


	8. Art of Characters

 

**Ai Concepting #1**

 

**Mako's Haircut**

 

**Steampunk AU Concepts**


End file.
